


just another product of today

by Hiaennyddei



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, POV Outsider, as in most of the story is told through the eyes of a NPC, not like... the actual Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28195713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiaennyddei/pseuds/Hiaennyddei
Summary: "That little demon again...""With all due respect, Captain, he's not so little anymore."(the beginnings of Daud and the Whalers, as told by an old Watch Captain who's seen enough)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	just another product of today

**Author's Note:**

> The TTRPG gives the date of the Whalers' creation at 1811. So Daud would have been 15-16 when creating the Whalers.  
> Also I'm obsessed with important stories told through the POV of unimportant NPCs.

Corvo's been a member of Dunwall's City Watch for barely a month when the incident takes place. He's in the training yard with the rest of the new recruits - and wiping the floor with them - when an officer bursts out of the building and yells at them to grab their gear and get their ass to Tailors' District. On his way out, Corvo overhears the Captain - a grizzled man who's been in the Watch for over three decades - mutter a few words to his lieutenant.

"That little demon again..."

"With all due respect, Captain, he's not so little anymore."

\---

It's hours later that the new recruits, Corvo included, get a complete briefing. They've seen the body of the Watch officer lying throat open in a pool of his own blood. They had to keep the gawkers away, close off the side street where the crime had taken place, take away the body, question the neighbors. The lieutenant makes a short description of a gang of murderers-and-thieves for hire, well organized, not afraid to target guards and other gang members. Elusive. Call themselves the "Whalers".

Corvo thinks that if the Watch doesn't have more about them despite being directly in the line of fire, the Whalers have to be a bit more than "elusive". But the lieutenant doesn't answer any question.

\---

In the evening, the Captain convokes Corvo and a couple other recruits to his office. It's not the first time it happens - the old man likes to keep an eye on the most promising guards.

This time, he pours them all a finger of Old Dunwall, and starts talking.

"Knowing you lads, you probably have questions about this afternoon's incident."

"Who did you call a 'little demon' earlier today?", Corvo asks.

The Captain raises an eyebrow. He hadn't thought he'd been overheard.

"It's how we call the Whalers' leader. Well, used to call, at least. The name don't fit no more.

“Started about six years ago. We had a slight increase in crimes around the harbor. Muggings, burglaries. Nothing really worrying. Until a member of the Hatters was targeted. Beaten to a pulp for his coin pouch. We didn't want it to degenerate into a gang war, so we looked into it.

Making the guy talk was a hassle. He was taller than you, Attano - and built like a brick shithouse. The bandaged arms and bruise-swollen face made him even scarier. And he wouldn't fucking talk. We thought he was scared, at first - of retribution. The Hatters didn't hate us as much as Black Sally's guys, but talking to the Watch is still snitch behavior.

We told him that if he didn't tell us anything, his buddies were gonna make their own conclusions and get themselves killed attacking the wrong people. Eventually, he relented. Asked us not to tell anyone.

"He wasn't afraid. he was _embarassed_. He admitted he'd gotten his ass handed to him by a teenager half his size, armed with a whaling knife that barely fit in his hand. The boy had asked him for his money with a cracking voice and the thug had laughed, what was this shortie gonna do?

The shortie proceeded to beat him within an inch of his life. Stabbed him in the calf to bring him to his height, sliced him across the chest and arms until his head was spinning from blood loss.

Then he took his coin pouch. And his jewelry - ripped his earrings right off his ears. Then he took his weapons. And his ammunition. And his belt. And his bag. And his deck of cards. And his cigarettes.

And then he kept kicking him while he was down, breaking his face, hitting his stomach until he spat blood. Only then did the kid leave.

The thug hadn't managed to land a single hit.

"We barely believed it at first - but then again, that guy had no reason to lie about being humiliated like that. And I doubt he had the imagination to spin that kinda story.

We had a good laugh telling that to the colleagues later that day. We put up a wanted poster with the description the thug had given - a teenage boy, thin, 5'2", dark hair, thick Serkonan accent, the side of his face bandaged, a gash peeking out where the bandages didn't cover it properly. It managed to be simultaneously vague and extremely specific - we thought we'd catch the boy easily, how do you miss a Serkonan mummy in the middle of Dunwall?

"In retrospect, we shoulda taken this more seriously. Shoulda seen it as a first sign instead of a freak anecdote to tell at family dinners. Six months later, the kid had found a following. Street kids younger than him, delinquents his age looking for a bit of thrill. A few near-adults who smelled an opportunity. Those were the most worrying - you don't attract that kind of attention until there's _something_ about you.

He'd send the youngest kids to pickpocket in the wealthy districts, wearing stolen clothing that would allow them to blend in with the upper crust. The older ones, he'd send to break into shops closed for the night and take everything that wasn't nailed down. The most brutal, he'd take with him to mug passersby or hold up a shop.

We never found where they were holed up. Looking back on it, I think they changed location every few days. They hit all over the city, moving from district to district like a pack of rabid dogs. Pretty sure they had a kid or two whose job was only to find their next hideout.

"It really got out of hand when they started taking contracts. First for beat-ups, then for murders. T'wasn't their first kills - the leader, especially, had a body count already - but those had been collaterals. Now they were the objective.

We should have expected it - it's the logical step after organized violence. Solo theft, organized theft, racketeering, then contract work. Simply, you usually reach that point _after_ you start growing body hair.

We saw a bunch of rugrats led by a teenager wearing clothes three size too big. We didn't expect _organization_. When we started taking it seriously, they had already a bit of an underworld reputation.

They must have holed up in a beached whaling ship for a while, because they started wearing whaling uniforms - masks and all. That's where the name comes from, by the way. Never knew if they named themselves or if people saw them in those clothes and started the trend. Regardless, it really lent to the legend. A gaggle of murderous kids is scary enough. A gaggle of dark hooded figures in vapor masks who'll slit your throat for three coins and a can of eels is another kind of scary entirely.

"Speaking of kids. The little demon was growing out of his nickname, back then already. Grew up like a weed. Regular meals will do that to you. He changed so fast we had trouble keeping track of him.

The scar on his face stayed, at least. That's about the only sure feature we have. With the masks, we don't have anything like a precise description. That was four years ago. We still got much of nothing.

"They've gotten more discreet, too. Didn't help any. No more hold-ups in broad daylight, no more muggings in side streets. Moved away from theft and into the blood business once and for all.

Broadened their offers, too. Took kidnapping and blackmail as well as assassination. And had better - hate to put it like that - better _technique_. No more beating a man to death, no more taking seven stabs to kill a guard. Now it's a single slice of the throat, a stab in the back straight to the heart, Pandyssian venom into a drink, a crossbow bolt to the skull. No witness. Gone in the night long before anyone finds the body. _If_ the body is found.

"The feral kid who beat up a Hatter half to death for a coin pouch is all grown up now. Deadly and efficient and still carrying that goddamned whaling knife. Not sure if it's the same one. Probably not. I don't peg the guy as sentimental.

Some of us at the barracks, we were chasing him when he was a head shorter than the youngest of us. The "little demon". They call him the Knife now, out on the streets. Sounds stupid, if you ask me.

His crew’s still growing. No more pickpockets and petty thieves. He spots the lost and angry ones, those with potential, and within months he has a few more assassins on his roster. And somehow he keeps them in line. Let’s be real though, he was ordering grown adults around when his voice was still breaking. I'm not surprised he doesn't have trouble with insubordination now that he's bigger than most of them."

The Captain takes a break, sips his whiskey and cleasr his throat. Corvo's own drink is still untouched. Besides him, the two other recruits are equally rivetted. The Captain looks at them, clears his throat and goes on with a self-depreciating smile.

"That's about all I got. We already don't have much on the Whalers' beginning, we got even less on their current situation. No idea where they're holed up - they can't be still moving across town every week, but they don't have a known territory like the other gangs do.

To be frank, I'm too old for this shit. I saw the Hatters rise from a street gang to the best of organized crime, I saw Black Sally snatch the whole Rust District out of the Butchers' claws. I saw gangs rise and fall. _Made_ them fall, for some of 'em. The young Knife, I don't think that's one I'm gonna see fall."

He pauses, and squints at the three barely-adults in front of him. "Who knows," he grins. "Maybe one of you lads will end up taking care of that one."


End file.
